This Merry Bond by Sara Seale Page A

down at the big Bechstein at the other end of the room and began playing snatches of Schumann. Simon, leaning against the piano, watched in silence for a little, then said appreciatively: “You play well.”
    She smiled, a stiff, rather absent little smile, and he knew she wasn’t really aware of him as a person.
    “My only education,” she said. “Charles always insisted upon tutors wherever we went. I think it must have been his one sentimentality. My mother played brilliantly.”
    But presently, she looked up at him and said in a rather hard little voice:
    “Why do you dislike the idea of carrying my name as well as yours?”
    He moved a little impatiently.
    “I don’t dislike it,” he said. “I just don’t think it’s important.”
    “It’s important to me.”
    He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
    “After all, ours is a great name, and it’s true I’m the last of my line.”
    “You didn’t think of that before tonight, my dear.”
    “Well, but Simon, I think you should consider it.”
    “It isn’t entirely a question of what I think,” Simon said patiently. “It would hurt my people very much if I changed my name. There’s the other point of view besides the Bredons, you know.”
    “But adding ours to yours isn’t changing it,” she persisted stubbornly.
    That familiar note came into his voice.
    “Well, it isn’t really any good discussing it,” he said quietly. “If you marry me, Nicky, you must take me as I am, and I’d advise you not to pursue the thing any further with my father. It can do no good.”
    “ I didn’t start it,” she said angrily.
    “I know that,” Simon said with a sudden smile. “That’s why it’s so obviously foolish to take it seriously, isn’t it? Perhaps we’d better go back to the others or they’ll think we’re quarrelling.”
    He met her two days later striding through the West Spinney, a pack of dogs at her heels. She wore an old pair of corduroy slacks and a vivid green sweater, and he stood in the shadow of an oak tree and watched her with pleasure as she came unconsciously toward him. She walked straight into his arms almost before she was aware of him, and unexpectedly the color flew to her cheeks. It was still so unfamiliar, to be made love to in her father’s woods,, and after he released her she said nothing at all, but stood staring at him, the heavy hair tumbling over her eyes.
    “Has no man made love to you before, Nicolette?” he asked her softly.
    She shook her head.
    “I never liked it before,” she said simply.
    He felt oddly touched, and pushed the hair back from her face with gentle fingers.
    “And yet you gloried in your reputation when I first met you,” he said.
    She grinned slowly, her long eyes tilting at the corners making her look very like Charles.
    “Was it as bad at that?” she asked. “I suppose I used to feel I had to live up to the Bredon tradition. I think even Charles didn’t really know how far it went.”
    She said it with simple pride. It had clearly never entered her head that a parent’s first duty should have been to find out. Simon reflected that in some ways Nicky was curiously innocent. She took the fact of her father’s affaires for granted, but the knowledge never touched her directly.
    “I think I saw through you pretty early on,” he told her gently.
    “Did you, Simon? Did you really?” she said. “How disappointing. I always hoped I’d fooled you more than anyone. I thought I had. I thought you had an honest contempt for me. You had, too, hadn’t you?”
    He shook his head.
    “You always interested me. You were such a mass of contradictions.”
    “I feel—” She hesitated. “I feel quite often that I don’t know you at all. I don’t even know what you think of me.” There was humility in her voice and an unconscious pleading.
    “You’ll have a long time finding out, won’t you, sweetheart?” he said, and the small endearment was the first she had heard from him, and